


Moving In

by battle_cat



Series: Fury Road Ficlets [13]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7222930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has never slept away from her, when he is there. But he isn’t always there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving In

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Moving in together."

He has never slept anywhere in the new Citadel other than her room.

Well. A few times up in the green, curled up against her back under the stars. Once in the cab of the new Rig, until she woke them up to scramble back into their clothes and sneak out of the garage. And three times in the infirmary, when one of them was too injured to be moved, although he always slept badly there.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he has never slept away from her, when he is there. But he isn’t always there.

In the beginning, his stays are measured in days and the gaps between them in weeks or months. After three or four departures she learns to read the signs, pick up when he’s starting to twitch. The leaving still hurts with an intensity that always startles her, but at least it’s less of a shock.

When he is there, his meager belongings find their niches around hers, almost as sparse. His jacket on the hook by the door. His satchel in the corner. His weapons lined up neatly on the workbench for cleaning.

Other things find their way in too. A tiny aloe plant on the ledge near her window. A handful of 7.62x39mm rounds with almost all the dried blood wiped off them. A piece of tubing that might make a replacement hydraulic line. An interesting bit of colored glass that catches the light.

After eight departures and returns she starts to let herself believe him when he says he intends to come back. (One can only intend; they both know better than to trust a promise that can’t be kept.) Now the stays are measured in weeks as well as his absences.

And then there is a time when he returns and doesn’t twitch. Thirty days go by. Fifty. Sixty. Ninety. She keeps waiting, watching him for signs of restlessness, the last line of defense still up. Afraid to ask, afraid to let him know she’s been counting the days, lest that be the thing that spooks him.

On the morning of the hundredth day she wakes up to find him facing her in the bed, watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. The morning sun catches the flecks of gold in his hair. There are flecks of silver too, as there are in her own hair, she knows.

He brushes soft fingers over her cheek and something suddenly clenches in her chest.

“What is it?” she ventures.

“Mm. Been one hundred days. Since I came back.”

“I know.” Her voice is very quiet.

“Longest I’ve stayed. Longest I’ve stayed…anywhere…in a long time.”

 _So this is it,_ she thinks, the thing in her chest spasming painfully. She braces for the goodbye.

“So…you’re going, then.” It comes out steady, but she has to close her eyes.

She feels his thumb rub over her forehead, smoothing out the wrinkle there. When she opens her eyes she catches him tucking away a flash of…something…in his expression. She thinks it might be pain.

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles. His gaze flicks away, brow momentarily knitting with confusion. “Thought I would. Eventually. Always did. But…don’t now.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up, a tiny, bemused smile. Her own lips shadow it, and then close the distance between them to meet it.


End file.
